


Opus Tespores

by ThatIsNotMyName



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Blood, Community: twd_kinkmeme, Dubious Consent, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Major AU, Master/Slave, Premature Ejaculation, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:20:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatIsNotMyName/pseuds/ThatIsNotMyName
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from the kink meme: Daryl/Glenn, AU, slavery, dub/noncon. Daryl is a huntsman who impulse-buys a young slave (Glenn). They start out as master and slave but their feelings grow to mutual love. Unbeta'd</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Incendedo

**Author's Note:**

> Last time I wrote anything was over 6 years ago in high school. Also, this is so bad. The title is so bad. I'm so sorry. I'd really appreciate it if I could get some constructive crit for this, so hopefully I can get better at characterisation and whatnot. Also, I just noticed I seem to have trouble keeping tenses and with grammar, so apologies again and let me know if you spot anything.

**Incedendo**

There must be someone, down into the deepest and most tormented pits of hell, who truly and unashamedly hates Daryl Dixon, for one morning (which started out more ordinary than any other ordinary morning in all of Daryl Dixon's mornings), his life had taken a spinning round-house kick to the groin, tumbling arse over tits and was irrevocable changed with zero chance of returning to normal.

 

That morning (a particularly ordinary morning at that), Daryl awoke from nauseating dreams, a cold sweat dampening his under shirt and sticking his hair down flat. He went about his business, relieving himself in the bed pot and starting the fire to heat up left over stew for breakfast before making his way outside, Dog loping behind sluggishly, to the horses and cart.  He had furs and leathers and antlers and a couple of tiny bone carvings. Being in the trade for as long as he had he had a mind for where to get the best prices for his wares and hopefully  today will be a short day in the city, most of his furs being commissioned  beforehand ought to make things go quicker.  Neither he nor Dog liked the city. Or crowds. Or merchants.  Just, people in general really. The Dixons were not really social. Neither were their pets.

 

One thing they do like however is their solitude and nature and living off the land and the bright, light feeling of accomplishment that comes after making a clean kill.  Making a living by getting his hands dirty is the only thing Daryl really knows and the only thing that truly grounds him.

 

Dog barked. He’d better hurry; the stew won’t keep for any longer.

 

*

 

The city of Mortuna was around two hours away by cart and after the first hour, despite the gleaming, happy sunshine the air was still icy from last night’s frost and the hunter was starting to lose the feeling in his toes. Dog had taken to burying himself in to Daryl side and the two mares had steam rolling off their backsides like hot coals immersed in water.

 

Most of his wares had been sold barring his tiny figures and a commissioned lilac Elandine fur for some high class fop who’s only redeeming trait is that he always goes to Daryl when in need of certain species to parade around in.  But to get to his place he has to trek through the ‘Living Wares’ section of the market district and he always puts off going there last, if only because the combined feel of greedy eyes and empty stares on his person makes him feel itchy and awkward. And the sellers are always touching and guiding and gesturing excessively wide to get his attention.  He doesn’t like it.

 

 

This morning is no different (so ordinary it’s almost _abnormally_ ordinary) though not as bad as some as Dog is grumpy today and growls at the merchants who get too close for too long. The stupid animal must have seen a rat or something because suddenly he dives to the right, getting under Daryl’s own feet and almost landing him straight on his face but he caught himself just in time.  

 

The sheer amount of people pushing and shoving their way through the street or towards displays makes it difficult to spot where Dog ran off to and every time he gets knocked off balance by someone nudging past his pack with the heavy fur folded carefully inside he hates Dog and the crowds and the whole world in general a little bit more. 

 

He spotted the hound, dark and large as he is, eating placidly out a merchant’s hand who, as these sorts things go in Daryl’s life, looks up just in time to catch his eye and smile benignly. _Fucking traitor. See if you get anything but hooves for dinner._  It was The Governor, famous around these parts and known by even the likes of him, mainly because he was always after Daryl’s best leathers and meat with the occasional antler or horn. He grimaced and tried to dampen is rising anger as he made his way to The Governor’s set up, not wanting to blow it with one of his best costumers.

 

“Good morning Dixon! It’s rare to see you in this part of town.  You couldn’t have picked a better day to finally cave in a buy a treat for yourself,” The Governor begins to gesture to his tent, arms wide and smile open.

 

“I didn’t come here for no business Gov, jus’ passing on through on a delivery,” and that’s very polite, Daryl thinks, fucking saintly.

 

“I thought as much but there’s no need to be running off so soon, I’ll get one of my girls to get you a nice, hot cup of tea while you partake in viewing my latest wares.” There’s something off about a man who can seem so decent and friendly while talking about his slavery business. Not that Daryl’s one to judge, slaves aren’t his thing sure – too much hassle – but so long as he keep up good trade with his costumers, he doesn’t really care what they get up to. He just wishes The Governor would stop pushing his business onto him though.

 

“I should really –“ but before he could finish his protests, a gentle hand hovering just a quarter inch from his shoulders was guiding him further in, past the floral patterned curtain. 

 

Inside the air was thick with scented oils; spiced and fruity, exotic. The lighting was dim, allowing just what little sunlight filtered the thick canopy. The Governor turned, closing in on Daryl and he’s ashamed to admit he actually flinched away so he doesn’t; instead he turned his eyes to meet the merchant’s.

 

“I’ve got just one left this week. New in. He comes from the east, real exotic. You’ll like him.” The Governor is smiling again like he knows all of Daryl’s secrets.  The fact that he’s talking about a male slave just confirms what he’s thinking. That in all the years he’s known the hunter, he’s never seen him express any special interest in the fairer sex. Or anybody really.  Relationships were a foreign concept to Daryl. A factor in life that just screamed danger to him.  He kept to himself mostly, never one to bring in bed warmers to keep the house awake at night like Merle did.  But men? He’s never even given that idea any attention. Ideas were dangerous and led to trouble. Nope, he’ll just keep his head down and keep to himself like always, easier now with Merle in the capitol.

 

The Governor’s still smiling and looking and _seeing._ “This way,” he whispers, pulling open the second lot of curtains to a room filled with cushions and candles and one mostly naked man.

 

The sudden there-ness of the naked slave startles Daryl to his core, his stomach bottoms out of him completely and he’s left breathless and staring.

 

The slave is small and tan, thick black hair cut to his ears. His dark eyes, strange and unlike anything Daryl’s seen in his small existence, were wide and scared, lips pressed into a bloodless line.

 

“His given name is Glenn, though, whoever buys him, “ and for the first time The Governor looked sly, eyes sliding to the sweat beading on Daryl upper lip, saturating his unkempt facial hair, “can name him whatever they please. Even brand them, though it isn’t implicitly needed as he’s already got the twelve point star on the back of his neck.”

 

And Daryl, well Daryl can’t stop staring, can’t stop sweating or aching or wanting. He can’t seem to start to breathe either and he’s getting dizzy from the lack of air.

 

“We’ve had nothing but good dealings in the past; I’d be willing to make you a deal.”

 

Daryl pauses, breaths finally. “What do you want?”

 

“What have you got?”

 

“Nothing,” which isn’t exactly true. He isn’t a man for material possessions and so he has no need to spend excessively, but his saving are all back at the cabin. A lot of the coin he garnered that day had been spent on needed supplies, the bit he’s got rattling around in his waistcoat pocket won’t come close to covering a slave, such an exotic one at that. But then, he remembers.

He swing his backpack around, opening the front flap to reveal the thick winter fur, soft, mostly white with just a hint of lilac. The fur, though luxurious and expensive, wouldn’t buy him slave ordinarily but The Governor promised him a deal.  Daryl just can’t even begin to comprehend his want for this idle, foreign creature cocooned in soft light and sweet scents. The need is inexplicable and unlike anything he’s ever felt, almost basic and primal in its intensity. He swallowed thickly.

The Governor meets his eye, letting his run through the thick pelt. “You wouldn’t bring a fur of this caliber in the city unless you already had a buyer.” There he goes again, reading Daryl’s secrets. Daryl just met his eyes dead on.  The slaver smiles in answer. “You have yourself a deal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Elandine is a made up creature as you can guess. In my mind they're like a cross between a moose and an elk, with shaggy fur, brown most of the time but it's fur turns white, kinda lilac-y in the winter, but really you're free to make up your own mind on what it looks like :P 
> 
> Also, I haven't a clue where I'm going with this story, so I'm sorry if it starts to meander.


	2. Auctoritas

**Auctoritas**

The slave – _Glenn-_ is made to dress in loose white pants and a  tunic, plain and unadorned. The Governor makes strong hints at wanting better prices the next time they do dealings, before ushering the pair of them out, his smile a tad more meaningful and conveying a lot more.

 

Daryl commands Dog to follow and makes his way toward his horses and cart, not looking back to see if his new impulse buy is actually following him or not, to busy wondering what the hell he was fucking thinking. He’s never been responsible for anyone before but now he’s got this entirely dependent being on his hands, who’ll look to him for everything, who’ll need feeding and clothing and _what the hell was he thinking?_ He wasn’t and that was the problem. He got his head all turned around on account of a pretty face.  All because his eyes were wide and he looked like he needed someone to keep him. Daryl started to chew on his thumb.

 

When he got to the cart he could hear the slave’s laboured breathing. He obviously had much more trouble than Daryl making his way through the crowd.  The hunter proceeds to ignore the panting and started to just ready the horses to the cart, make sure they were comfortable for the long trek home. Technically, he realises, he could get his slave to do all this, but really, Daryl doesn’t want to spend much energy imagining all the things he could make the pretty slave do for him.

 

*

 

During the two hour long ride home, the slave wouldn’t stop shivering and Daryl wouldn’t stop ignoring him and Dog wouldn’t stop whining in the back. It was a long two hours.

 

When they finally got home, Dog ran ahead and started pissing on the outer wall of the cabin.  Daryl was busying himself settling the horses while his recent purchase stood awkwardly, waiting for a command. He was currently engrossed in his new footwear; thin, flimsy booty thingies The Governor had put on him.

 

The huntsman took a deep, steadying breath.  “Go ahead and start the fire warmin’. Flints in a ceramic bowl on the mantle.” Quick little footsteps make their way indoors and Daryl makes his way to the small stables, spending longer than necessary with the horses, giving them a thorough brush down. Now he needed time away from the foreigner,  time to think.

 

The slave was his to do with as he pleases weather to kill him or keep him. Killing him would be pointless, a waste of a perfectly good pelt and the thought of it knots something up in his chest and he isn’t too keen to keep that train of thought. That and he already ruined business with one of his best costumers so he’d better make it worth it.

 

He’ll think on it more anther time, when he’s got a clearer head and not all tangled up in the webbing of his own confusion.

 

His chest hurts, he feels anxious and Daryl can’t think on a single reason why that would be. It feels as though it’s the beginning of something, like he’s that lone, singular being at the centre of an explosion, waiting for the bang and clash and shock.  Waiting, poised forever in that half-a-second before the violent and sickening pain sets in.  But it doesn’t and he’s kept waiting.

 

The hunter took a shaky breath and leaned his forehead against Dart’s flank, steadying himself.  It was always just him and his family; Merle, Ma and Da. Then it was just him and Merle for years and years and years. But then Merle got it in his head that there’s better money, girl’s and living up north, so then Daryl was by himself in a big old cabin meant for four.

 

Now there’s  someone new, all strange and quiet and scared and just waiting for Daryl to make more use out of him than starting the fucking fire and Daryl’s never so much as held hands with someone nevermind – _Good Lord!_

 

He’s just some simple back-woods hunter, what is he doing with a slave?

 

_*_

 

The fireplace was particularly large for the size of the cabin as a whole and so it afforded heat to be quickly stretched across the main room of the cabin. Daryl comes home to a lit the fire, flames bountiful and bright and orange, eating up the wood the way greedy new fire is want to do. The difference between the chill from outside to the almost suffocating warmth makes Daryl’s neck flush, which he always hates. Dog welcomes the difference, spending no more than a quick second giving the newcomer a sniff before flopping down dramatically in front on the hearth, sparing neither of the two men a second glance.

 

The eastern man is standing, his eyes reflecting sparks like tiny storms captured in glass.  He goes to speak, a wisp of a smile starting before he remembers his place, eyes turning downcast to stare at his clothed feet.

 

“I, er, started the fire, like you asked and erm. . . . it didn’t take me long. Is there- is there anything else I can do for you or get you?” Daryl’s suddenly hit with the thought that he might not have been a slave for very long. It’s strange and a bit scary to think these people who were mere commodities one had lives like his own.  He realises he’s being stared at.

 

“Food _!” Blurting out random crap ain’t gonna get you nowhere, Dixon!_

 

“Food, yea, ya should probably get started on supper or sumin,” and he’s mumbling and talking to his chest rather than the slave but he can't bring himself look too much.

 

“Supper, yea, I can – yea. Where is the ah . . .”

 

“Door behind ya.” Daryl nods slightly to the almost hidden door behind Glenn, a door that leads to the smoking pit and the two closet sized rooms, one used for food and preserves, the other for dried meat and fish storage.  He should really be out hunting right now, both to use the fresh meat before setting in using his stores and to put away extras, but he doesn’t feel comfortable letting  a stranger loose on his family home unattended. 

*

 

Time after supper crawled as slowly as a limbless toad but the dark had set in hours ago, the sky quickly fading to night right after the sun had started to set, hastier than it had the previous nights; a testament to the long winter head.

 

Daryl had spent the last couple of hours maintaining his crossbow and hunting knife, even when there was none to be done.  When he realised he couldn’t put it off any long he stood, giving a Glenn a look before going into his bedroom, leaving the door wide open.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daryl's so awkward! I'm trying to take into account what Normal Reedus has said about Daryl and romance. Daryl's never going to be smooth in fic, but he may be awkward and blunt and maybe a tad corny later on.


	3. Infestus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very chapter because this was fired off just before I visited my parents.

**Infestus**

 

Glenn’s skin was cold; icy and clammy to the touch but Daryl ignored the clench in his ribs and continued to roughly yank the outlander by his slight wrist and onto his tiny, single framed bed, shocked with the realisation that he and his slave were essentially the same height.

 

Glenn followed through with the movement obediently, kneeling lowly on the straw mattress, head down and left foot balanced on the floor to steady himself. 

 

Daryl gulped, breathe heavy and wet and he almost wished he was faced with resistance; this mindless submission wasn’t something he wanted to see right, but it was something he should be seeing and that made it worse. With a shaking hand he push Glenn’s canvas trousers down, almost ripping the drawstring in the process.

 

He wasn’t hard, not even close, but he was quick. A couple of strokes later he’s full and aching, dark, red head damp and heated.  He steadied himself by clutching at the other man should, before forcefully pushing in, the dry heat painful. Glenn made a slight noise in pain but he’s muffled himself with Daryl’s quilt, the one he’s had since he was seven.

 

The hunter notices a wetness slowly building around his cock, but before he could begin to wonder what is was he was already cumming after a grand total of three thrusts. 

 

Daryl shuddered and gasped and took just a moment to gather his own sense of self before a sniffle brought him back to his dark room with the dank, damp shadows and walls that closed in far too often. He pulled out slowly, far too sensitive and there’s a dark, thick substance streaking his quick softening member: blood. He felt sick and looked to find dark eyes glistening and wet cheeks.

 

He tucked himself in quickly and jogged out the bedroom into the main park of the cabin. He fished around in the small bit of a kitchen he’s got for a clean cloth, dunked it in a bucket of water before returning to the bedroom.

 

Glenn had begun to stand when he arrived; slowly pulling his trousers back up.  He flinched when his master barged back in the room. Daryl tossed him cloth.

 

“Ya can clean yerself up with that.  I’ll be going out now so ya can have the bed too,” with that he fled, hand covering his mouth.  He stuffed his feet in his boots, grabbed his coat and crossbow before exiting the cabin all together, leaving Dog whining behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . . . premature ejaculation because Norman Reedus says so . . .


	4. Sui Odio

**Sui Odio**

The night is crisp and clear, air so cold it stung his heated skin. He plowed his way through the trees and brush, ignoring the wood around him; a greenie mistake. He huffed moist, white clouds of vapour into the atmosphere, stomping on frozen leaves and brittle twigs.

 

He remembered he still had Glenn’s blood on him. He raged.

 

He dropped his weapon and found a tree, kicked and punched till his toes bruised and his knuckles turned bloody.  He was still huffing, panting really, far more heavily than before. He hadn’t been able to catch his breath since walking into bedroom the first time; since his timid, shy slave willingly followed.  There is person, living and breathing and hurting and bleeding on his bed, the same one his Ma soothed his fevered brow when he’d fallen through the ice, the same one his Da built at the beginning when he got too big for the cot. 

 

This was too much. This was too wrong, _he_ was too wrong. He broke.

 

His throat ripped with a cry not dissimilar to a strangled animal; hot, fat tears rolled from his stinging eyes, soaking his face and collar. He wheezed, trying to gather oxygen as it burned into his lungs. He slapped the trunk of the tree before sliding into a crouch position.

 

He sat there, for maybe hours or minutes, till his fingers froze stiff, till his tears cooled and frosted his cheeks. He sat, huffing and wheezing and crying and emitting hurting, broken noises.

 

Hours and hours later,  the first signs of dawn arrived; crimson light streaking violent through the sky like blood drops spreading in water, Daryl had made just one kill: A brush hog. He’d field dressed it immediately, burying the big mess of guts in the frozen ground, one dug out by hand alone, each of his digits adorned with cuts and ice burns.  He took a courage gathering breath before opening his front door.

 

Glenn, it had seemed, had been sitting on the floor beside the fire without a wink of sleep.  When Daryl entered he stood abruptly. The two stared at each, both unsure of how to deal with the happening of last night.

 

“I ah- I made porridge,” Glenn offered.

 

*

 

The hunter spent a while after breakfast debating whether or to bother pickling the brush hog’s skin, before deciding that the course fur offered very little in the way of warmth and no one would want to buy the sickly grey-green hide.  He spent time sectioning the meat, whilst Glenn busied himself with dusting and wiping and washing, all the while the blood on his trousers’ was still there, sharp and severe, a harsh reminder.

 

Daryl hung the meat up for drying, picking up one of the hog’s tusks and settling next to the hearth to start carving. After a while, he cleared his throat.

 

“I was thinkin’ maybe I could sell ya,” he began awkwardly.  The slave stopped what he was doing, turning to face his master, eyes wide and mouth agape in confusion. 

 

Glenn nodded,  “Okay. Was it something I did? Or, erm, didn’t do?”

 

“Mmm, no, it’s jus’, a slave ain’t fer me is all,” Glenn nodded again, still confused but wholly accepting of his master’s decision. “I have a brother up in Vitino, I can take ya up there.” Silence from the slave. “We’ll set out tomorrow or maybe the day after, weather permitting a’course.”

 

“Of course,” was Glenn’s only answer.

 

*

 

The rest of the day went by noticeably tense, with Glenn cooking and cleaning and doing the bit of the laundry and Daryl stiffly silent apart from a couple of gruffly mumbled orders. Dog ignored the pair, basking is the glow of warm embers, seemingly unbothered by the tension.

 

When the light began to fade, Daryl lit a candle nearby, and continued his carving. For what felt like the first time in so long, Daryl was completely distracted and enthralled by what he was doing. The carving had taken a mind of its own, not becoming anything in particular, just a pattern of swirling summer nature. The leaves and vines and thorns and petals pulling at his attention, fully absorbing him in such an intimate way. It was when he was busy rounding off and edge of a nettle that he suddenly felt a presence beside himself and his chair.

 

Glenn was almost intimidating, standing tall and backed by firelight and looming, dark ceilings. He would be, in fact, if it weren’t for look of un-certainty and utter despair.  A plump bottom lip was caught between blunt, white teeth.

 

“Yea?” _Good Lord_! Was he actually going to have to converse? He did not sign up for this, he did not sign up to having nice little chats with a man who’s blood he got on his cock.  Glenn remained silent.

 

“Yer got a tongue in that head of yours?”

 

His slave looked down to his feet before meeting Daryl’s eyes dead on. He took a deep breath. “Please don’t sell me.” It was said so simply, fell out of Glenn lips as if it was okay to be asking such a thing.

“Wha . .” was Daryl’s eloquent response.  He cleared his throat. “What are ya talkin about?”

 

“Please!” Glenn suddenly sounded so desperate now, his face reddened and his eyes became suspiciously wet. “I know, I shouldn’t be asking you this. I don’t even have the right to speak to you without your permission I know, but you have to give me a second chance! I’ve seen what people do to their slaves but your not – I can’t . .” He paused and took a shuddering breath, hands pulling through his thick hair. He started to whisper, “I’ll do anything. I can do anything for you, anything you like. I can- I can be good, I can real good for you,” he dropped to his knees in front of the hunter, Daryl, dumbstruck and speechless, was still holding onto his carving and knife. He let them clatter abruptly to the table when he felt Glenn’s shaking hand take a hold of his belt.  Daryl tried to furtively fight him off, but he was slow in reaction, still reeling from shock as he is and suddenly Glenn’s undone his belt and trousers and a dark, cold hand reaches inside to pull out his untouched member.

 

“I can be the one who does this for you,” the words came in a gush of hot, damp breath against his shaft, effectively rendering him weak and defenseless. Full red lips parted, a sliver of a pink tongue flickered against the head. Daryl bucked, the sensations almost painful with its new-ness, his hands scrabbling against the table and the arms of his chair, trying to find any purchase at all to ground him, knowing distantly it wouldn’t help.

 

Glenn drove forward, mouth fastening against the tip to suckle momentarily, before delving further, Daryl gasping and muttering above him. With heat so searing and wet, Daryl stood no chance and he came, convulsing and embarrassingly fast yet again. Glenn swallowed it all, purposefully pulling back slightly just in time.  He still suck, for a just a bit longer, until his master’s cock became soft and plaintive whine came from him.  The slave drew back completely, staying on his knees in front of the hunter.

 

Glenn gave Daryl a moment to catch his breath, noticing the way Daryl covered his eyes, as if ashamed.

“Are you still going to. . . to sell me?”

 

Daryl pulled his hand away from his face, only to return them both to scrub at his eyes and cheeks and mouth. He sighed. “I dunno.”

 

“Okay,” Glenn’s answer came in a croaking whisper.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I just wrote a blow job scene. It was so bad! I'm so sorry D: 
> 
> Daryl's crying was taken from what Norman said. The picture of Daryl crying after prematurely ejaculating in his first sexual encounter just wouldn't leave me. Although I hate woobie!Daryl so I really hope he didn't come off as much.


	5. Despero

**Despero**

 

Daryl sent Glenn to Merle’s old room, of which formerly belonged to his parents. He needed some time to himself, some time to breathe and think. He was now more confident than ever that he was going to sell his slave; someone who could disarm him so completely and within just a moment was someone he didn’t feel safe being around. He should be the one with the upper advantage here; he was the master but somehow it hadn’t worked out that way.

 

He laid down on his bed, the old wood creaking and complaining in the ways he was used to.  Dog had followed him, seeking out his owner’s presence in one of the rare moments that the hound sought for company.  The large canine jumped on the bed beside him, squeezing under his arm and snuffling his pit. 

 

Dog whined pitifully, effectively distracting Daryl from his thoughts. “What’s up boy?” A calloused, scarred hand ran through Dog’s thick coat. In answer, the mutt just buried further in his side.  Daryl sighed.

 

*

 

“I thought on it, but I still think ya better off bein’ sold.”

 

It so very early in the morning, the moon still struggling against the beginning of the first rays of light, frost clinging to every part of nature it could outside, gathering into the very corners of the thin and flimsy window panes.

 

Glenn didn’t seem surprised. He turned his head briefly to meet Daryl’s eyes, before turning back to the pot over the fire. “I understand,” was the clear, emotionless answer.

 

“After breakfast we’ll hafta start preparin’. Supplies and such. Make sure we got enough for the trip, ‘cause it’ll take us ‘bout three days in the cart.” Glenn nodded slowly along with plan’s explanation, eyes downcast and mouth grim. Dog whined.

 

*

 

Daryl had a stockpile of furs and pelts in preparation for the inevitable freeze which happens every year at around this time.  He decided to bring them all, as well as his usual camping equipment, knowing how risky he was being to set off so soon.  Daryl set Glenn off to work packing preserves and dried meat, deciding he’ll buy any other dried goods in the city on the way through

 

 

His tent was old and patch-worked but it’s served him well in all these years, he’d hate to just get up and buy or make a new one.  He was busy refolding his tent back into the canvas cover after checking for moths when a sack filled with his clothes, freshly washed and dried as of yesterday, was placed carefully by his feet. Daryl looked up to see the slave’s shy smile and lowered eye-lashes.  He grunted and returned to his task.  

 

*

 

When the first filtered light of the new day began, it revealed a frost that hadn’t thawed. The wood seemed frozen in a quiet, tempered moment, dew drops icy and stilled on heavily bowed branches, tiny wood beetles incased in a thin layer of glaze, frozen mid-way to the climb home.

 

When the two inhabitants of the cabin leaned low to peer through the frosted glass of the window pane, one half of the duo had a brief moment of relief, before Glenn looked over and realised Daryl still looked resolute to set out on the journey today, despite the hazardous conditions.  Before they headed out, Daryl handed Glenn a pile of clothes.

 

“I can’t take this, they’re not mine.” Glenn was both astonished and heartbroken and it showed. Daryl shuffled glumly and when he spoke, it was through his thumb.

 

“Don’t need ya getting’ sick on the ride over, got enough to deal with without havin’ to play nurse maid to some foreigner who’s too sun coddled.”

 

If Daryl didn’t know any better, and he probably didn’t when he thought on it, he could have sworn there was defiance in the way Glenn set his chin. “Of course,” Daryl turned to get ready, not sparing his slave a look. “Whatever you say, master,” was muttered quite audibly. Daryl ignored him, gut twisting.

 

Once loaded and sufficiently dressed for the weather, bar Glenn’s feet, they were off, bungling along the dirt tracks, the old cart practically vibrating with every bump along the way. The ride over to the city was tense, the uncomfortable silence broken only by Dog’s panting with the occasional bark at the wild-life.  Once they reached Mortuna, Daryl parked the cart up against a wide side street, commanding Glenn to stay while he acquired supplies. Dog wanted to stay behind and _God damn_ if that didn’t hurt Daryl a hell of a lot more than it should have.  He stormed away, shoulders hunched, empty burlap sacks flapping in his wake.

 

Jim’s General Goods store, with whom he’s had a long standing business with, was the most important stop and his first on the list. Jim was the only worker, quiet but honest.  He was tall and thin and kept to himself mostly, never indulging in trade gossip and very rarely starting any sort of conversation, which suited Daryl just fine.

 

He’d told the shopkeeper his list and was busy inspecting the shelves behind the till while Jim put his order on the counter. Jim caught his eye; a bad omen. “Long trip?”

 

“Aye,” there was silence for a few moments, while Jim tallied the hunter’s total and told him the cost. Daryl went to press the coins onto the counter when Jim’s hand hovered above his own, disallowing his hand to return.

 

“People been talking, Dixon.”

 

“Yea?”

 

“You got a slave?”

 

“What of it?” Daryl was about ready to grab his goods and bolt, but he knew Jim, he’d known him years and there’s a certain amount of quiet trust between the two.

 

“Your brother know? I heard what you got ain’t just a normal slave. _He_ ’s exotic like is what I heard.”

 

“I’m on my way to see Merle now. Might jus’ sell the thing.” Daryl can’t begin to explain the rising draft of cold on his neck or the sick, anxious feeling in this stomach when he says that.

 

Jim nods slowly, eyes on Daryl. “That what you want to do?”

 

“What are ya gettin’ at?” The hunter was practically growling.

Jim leaned back, arms folded as he surveyed Daryl for a moment.  When he spoke, it was slow and calm. “I don’t care what folks get up to so long as it don’t directly affect me or my business.  Now that brother o’ yours sure does.  Makes it his business. I know you’re a good man Daryl Dixon, so I’m just warnin’ ya to be careful, but don’t let him affect you too much. You do what you hafta.” Daryl snatched up his items.

“I gotta get goin’ along.”

 

The next and last stop was the cobblers, hopefully they’ll have what he needs and there’ll be no wait.

 

*

 

As Daryl spied the other man on his way back to the cart, Glenn looked for all the world like he was on his way to a short drop.  As he passed by the front bench on his way to the back of the cart, Daryl shoved a pair of boots into the slave’s hands.

 

“Wha-“

 

“I told ya, can’t be playing nursemaid.”  Glenn snapped his jaw shut tight and within a few minutes they were on their way again.

 

They were on the road for maybe three hours, four tops, when the slave’s shivering got too much, chattering teeth and blue lips wasn’t as easy to ignore as initially thought. Daryl pulled the horses to a stop before sighing and walking around to their supplies.  He came back into Glenn’s sights with a pile of furs and that was the last he saw before his vision filled with soft browns and greys.  He spluttered and flailed and wrestles with the pelts, trying position them in some semblance of order. When he could breathe and see again, Daryl was practically beaming.

 

Well no. He was smirking. But that’s smiling for Daryl right?

 

“What i-“

 

“I told ya before didn’t i? I-“

 

“-can’t be playing nursemaid, right.” The hunter’s smirked widened. Glenn smiled as Daryl tugged the two mares to move forward. 

 

“Were’re ya from then? Never did catch it.”

 

“I’m actually from Calor.”

 

Daryl raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “That right?” Calor was no more than a few days ride away in the opposite direction. It did, however, explain the lack of any accent.

 

It was Glenn’s turn to smirk. “My family, however, was originally from Sphaeran. My parents moved over to start a flower growing business before I was born. “

 

“Uh-huh. How’d ya end here then.”

 

Glenn’s faces closed off, the light in his eyes dying. Daryl became increasingly uncomfortable.  He was about to tell the other man to forget what he said when the slave spoke. “My father died. Just a couple days after the funeral these debt collectors came demanding their money back.  My mother never knew how Father got the money to start up the business, or how he got to this country so easily. She never did have a mind for that sort of stuff so I guess she never even gave it a second thought.” The slave took a shaky breath; his lips quivered slightly but were no longer blue. “I – I have two sisters. Twelve and fourteen.” He swallowed. “The men, they said they’d take their payment from them if we couldn’t offer an alternative. So I did.”

 

Daryl thought on for a moment, registering the information and the emotion. “The Governor’s a debt collector?”

 

“Hmm? You mean the guy you got me off? I don’t know. Just, one day, I was there.  No one bothered to tell me anything. I do remember hearing little things, like, how I was an expensive commodity or something. “

 

There was nothing else but clouded breath for moment, before Daryl turned, smiling crookedly. “Well, you were pretty damned expensive.”

 

Glenn eyed the hunter before returning the smile with one his own. “You got me for a single pelt, you got lucky.”

 

“Hey! It was damned fine pelt!”

 

*

 

A couple of hours later, the sky had already started to dim, darkness eating away greedily at the white-cast heaven before daylight was even through, so the pair broke for camp.

 

Glenn was securing the horses to a branch, encasing their muzzles in feedbags.  Daryl was busy setting up the tent in a small clearing, a tiny fire already crackling merrily in the dark, while he left Dog to chase after big-eared mice through the trees.

 

Daryl looked over from his task momentarily to see Glenn smiling at the mutt’s foolery, no doubt surprised he wasn’t in his usual grump. “He ain’t a pet.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Dog. He ain’t no pet. Not really.  He’s a working animal.”

 

“Dog? That’s his name?”  The brunet’s eye widened in disbelief, the beginnings of a smile just hinting at his lips again. _This boy smiles too much for no damn reason_ , Daryl grumbled to himself. “What kind of a dog is he anyways? He’s so big. And scowly.” Glenn smiled properly again, eyes lighting up while he eyed Daryl.

 

“Hell if know. Found him in a sack with a buncha dead brothers and sisters on the side of a river, belly swollen with worms.  Took him home and had him ever since. That was what? Maybe five years back? Yea.”

 

Glenn’s smile widened, looking at Daryl in such a way that made him want to laugh and vomit at the same time.  He cleared his throat and finished setting up the tent.

 

After Daryl had finished his task and gave up pointedly not looking at Glenn, they made the fire a little bigger, making it easier for the dark-eyed man to make dinner.

 

*

 

They had eaten, bellies full and bodies warmed by the fire, and were now relaxed, enchanted by the glowing embers. Dog snoozed, far too close to the fire for Glenn’s liking but Daryl paid the animal no mind.

 

Daryl suddenly spoke. “So’s how come if you’re from this country your so damned cold all the time?”

Glenn shrugged. “Mother was cold all the time it seemed and always had lit fires, so it could be that. Or maybe I’m just a wimp?”

 

“Yea, maybe.” Glenn just laughed, it was so sudden and bright that Daryl nearly bolted. But then suddenly the other man looked so sad, brow bunched and wrinkles as if in pain, mouth down-turned and tight. Daryl watched, enthralled with the flames, how they weren’t content with the night, instead devouring the light of Glenn’s eyes, dulling them to emptiness and misery. He stared for quite a while before Glenn spoke.

 

“Please. Don’t sell me.”

 

Daryl groaned. “Awe kid, no, not this time.”  He put his face in his hand, willing for all the trouble and complications of his formerly simple life to just _fuck off._  Instantly, strong arms wound around his middle, a hot, wet mouth on his neck and words, so full of promise and desperation, were whispered with heated breath into his ear. _Pleasepleaseplease._

 

Daryl flung the arms from around him and stood abruptly, Dog instantly on his feet at the interruption.  He turned to the slave, eyes vicious and teeth barred in a snarl.

 

“Ya think that’s ok?!”  Glenn, shocked, just stared, stiff and afraid. Daryl was glad. “Ya think it’s ok to do that?! That just because ya got some fool notion runnin’ in ya head, alls ya gotta do bat ya lashes and turn on ya charms to get yer way?! Huh?!”

 

“I did a bit more than bat my lashes. . .” Daryl’s glare doubled in strength and he was so close to just punching the other man.  Glenn quickly away and at his feet, he was still on the floor and very vulnerable. Not that he stood a chance otherwise.

 

Daryl took a deep breath and looked around the small clearing, for what he didn’t know. He settled with his hand on his hips, eyes on his feet. “Why ya want me keep you so bad?” He sounded so tired and unhappy that Glenn instantly regretted voicing his request.

 

“Because you’re not a cruel man. You’re different.”

 

“No I’m not,” the hunters whispering voice wavered slightly.

 

“Yes you are. That’s why you cried.” Daryl’s sudden change in mood was so sudden and violent that Glenn swallowed and shifted backwards.  There was silence.

 

“How did you  . . .” But he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

 

“I saw you. At the tree. You weren’t far from the cabin.” The hunter instantly looks ashamed, self-hate pouring from his eyes.

 

“You shouldn’t have looked . . . .” Again, silence, broken up only by the plaintive whine from Dog, worried at the tension.

 

“Whether or not you sell me, just know, you’re a good man, Daryl Dixon.”

 

With those words, Daryl turned and stomped away; away from the camp already full of memories and voices, away from that little fire that ate Glenn’s happiness, away from Glenn himself, with all his pretty false words.

 

He stopped and turned.

 

He stormed up to Glenn, grabbed the thin wrist in his large hands and dragged him into the tent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has officially run away from me.
> 
>  
> 
> ConCrit more than welcome and helpful


	6. Inquietudo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind words, I never thought I'd get this much attention overall so it's even more surprising it's all positive. So again, thank you.
> 
> Also, I'd like just point out that I'm aware of the many, many mistakes in the fic but I have a very good reason! I'm a coward you see. I know that if I start examining what I've written, I won't post it, like ever. So I post it without re-reading it. Once this fic is finished, I'm going though it all and hopefully make it readable.

**Inquietudo**

 

Glenn was dragged and tossed none too gently onto the floor of the tent, a pile of cloth and pelt broke his fall. He was breathless and shaking, half excited and half terrified.  Daryl is on him in an instant, legs capturing his thighs and arms framing his head. He was trapped, caged by a body of muscle and callouses.

 

It was here, it seemed, that Daryl ran out of ideas. Or lost his bottle.

 

They both struggled for air, faces close; so close they shared expelled breath, foreheads touching, fringes intermingling. Daryl was simply staring, startling blue eyes uncertain but intense.  Glenn gulped and brought his hand slowly up to rest calmly on Daryl’s arm, giving what little comfort and assurance such a tiny gesture could offer.

 

Suddenly, Daryl snatched up his right arm and roughly pushed his hand into Glenn’s pants easily, loose as they were. He started to jerk the slave off with very little technique and very cold hands.  The hunter’s fingertips (caustic, blunt and so very hurtful), were continuously putting far too much pressure on the too sensitive head of his cock and Glenn twisted in pain, grunting and tearing up. He almost told Daryl to stop, knew that he would, but he couldn’t speak; this was getting him off in the best and worst possible way.  He leaned upwards, cradling his owner’s head and went to kiss him but Daryl turned his head just in time. Glenn was left to simply mouth at his collar, desperate, arms winding around broad shoulders to cling.

 

He whispered: “Oh, Daryl . . .” and came messily and noiselessly, rocking violently into the large body above his own. 

 

Daryl got up, looking away, and wiped his hand on one of the many swathes of clothe in the tent.  He sat down, back to Glenn and head in his hands.

 

All it took was a little touch to his shoulder, feather-light and barely there, for Daryl to comply and let his body fall backwards.  Glenn’s hands, far more confident than last time, started to unlace his trousers, mouthing at the thick shock of dark pubic hair. He stilled and lifted his head when the hunter spoke.

 

“You called me Daryl,” he croaked, almost in awe.

 

Glenn climbed slowly up the body beneath him a hand coming to hover above the chest. He looked to Daryl face, upturned as it was toward the canvas ceiling. “I’m sorry.”

 

The hunter swallowed thickly, forehead beading with sweat despite the frigid temperature.  “Don’t matter. Don’t mind. S’not like a wanted a slave t’begin with.”

 

The Sphaeraini sighed and made his way back southward, hands caressing, mouth a delectable heat.

 

*

 

Dog must have made his own way into the tent that night, after Daryl had passed out with his trousers still unfastened, because when the hunter awoke it was to the sight of both he and Glenn push aside like unwanted litter to the sides of the tent, with no blanket in sight. Dog, however, had cosied up under the thickest of furs between the pair, stretched wide across almost the entire expanse of the little room.  Daryl considered kicking the hound in revenge, but wisely kept his feet to himself before ripping the fur off Dog and tossing it on to the other, still slumbering occupant, receiving an affronted, blue eyed look for his efforts.

 

He made his way through the flap to see that it snowed during the night, just a bit. He spied through the trees that the snow is deeper and heavier looking on the dirt path they’d come a long, but here in the thicker part of with wood they are mostly sheltered by the canopy of interwoven branches. He was disgruntled to find he hadn’t banked the fire, charred shells of branches still glowing fiercely, despite the adverse conditions.  He set to work rebuilding the flames to warm his chilled skin and hopefully get something hot in his belly.

 

After a while, he slapped some dried meat and preserved vegetables in pot (he never was a great cook . . . ) with snow instead of water and let the fire do its work.  Five or so minutes later, when the snow is officially liquidated into it’s original form, he hears the sound of waking and Glenn exits it the tent covered in the pelt Daryl through on him, breath turning into white clouds as he a foot or two away from Daryl.

 

The silence would have been comfortable, if it weren’t for the freezing temperatures and last night’s memories, demanding attention and clinging to the forefront of their thoughts, like sleep dust in their eyes.  Glenn shifts and sniffles, sleeping in frigid air with no blanket having more of an effect on him than initially thought.

 

Daryl cleared his throat. “I still need to go to Merle’s.”

 

“Hmm? Merle’s?”

 

“My brother, up in Vitino.  Still need t’go.”

 

“Vitino? Oh. . . .” Glenn curled into himself, plump bottom lip making it’s way between teeth.

 

The hinter eyed him, quirking and eyebrow. “ Though once we’re there we’ll hafta find an inn or sumin ‘cause Merle’ll probably have no room us.”

 

Glenn’s sidled up to him faster than he could have fathomed, eyes bright and smile wider than wide. His hands hovered above Daryl again, as if touching him would make him change his mind. His mouth was opening and closing like a hooked fish and it took him a while to actually summon words.

 

“You-you- you mean you’re not gonna . . really? “

 

“Mmm,” the hunter turned his eyes forward, eyeing the wood beyond the fire consideringly, the snow lined branches of the trees brittle and stark in appearance.  “Probably not.”

 

Glenn laughed, open and joyful, the noise finally waking Dog.

 

*

 

 

Contrary to popular belief and the hushed, whispering lies told between the idle-minded folks of Mortuna, Merle Dixon did indeed have the ability to love another human being and Merle Dixon, despite hardly having ever showed tender feeling in his whole entire life, loved his baby brother.  In fact, his little Darylena was the one and only reason he was freezing his balls off making the long and troublesome journey back to his family home.  He had to tell his brother to good news after all and of course invite him (Drag him by the goddamn ear if need be) back to the big city.

 

He was traveling light, just him and his stallion and his bag. He needed no more than a couple of essentials, including his bow Henrietta. The old girl was thirsting for a kill and was more than happy to oblige.

 

He’d spent most of the morning journeying after freezing half to death with the night’s snow, not one for wasting daylight, but he was getting mighty hungry.

 

He led Slayer away from main road and into the thickening wood, the clumsy fool knocking snow of the winter-bare branches and onto their heads. He grumbled while he found a tree to tie horse, no doubt the lumbering creature had already scared off half the wild-life, he should have known better.

He’d wandered for a while, snagging frost-hare for his troubles. He was about to head back to Slayer and build a fire when he spied the telltale signs of  noxious, black plumes of smoke  not far away.

 

*

 

Glenn had clutched at Daryl’s sleeve with one hand in his enthusiastic glee, his other a whirlwind of gestures and movements. “Thank you! Really, just – wow. You won’t regret this, I will – I can –“

 

“I’m about already startin’ to regret this,” the hunter was supposedly grumbling  but Glenn laughed him off again, eyes bright.  

 

A moment later, Glenn’s face turned serious but slightly pinch brow and half smile showed sincere honesty, awe and so much more. “You have no idea how happy I am. Daryl.” The foreigner gulped, preparing to speak again when the Dog suddenly jumped up and snarled and something behind them.

 

They both turned, Daryl on his feet and in front of Glenn in an instant, crossbow materialising in his hands. Slowly emerging from the brush was a large, burly, obviously male figure with – was that a hook for a hand? The stranger had the gall to quirk an eyebrow at the pair.

 

“You’d best not be threatenin’ to shoot me of all people, baby brother.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaand their off!
> 
> Next chapter's going to involve something a little weird and your all probably going to stop reading :P


	7. Umbris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So so sorry about the wait. I have literally not had time to touch my laptop or really do much of anything else. I wouldn’t blame anyone if they stopped reading this altogether. Also, here’s something I learned: I can’t write Merle. Seriously, this is terrible. 
> 
> ConCrit is happily received.

**Umbris**

 

Once, when Daryl was so young he still slurred his r’s and his hair was still the light, sun bleached blond his ma loved, he found a little broken mouse.

 

He’d wandered too far; father than ever before on his own, when he came across the largest, fattest bird he’d ever seen.  It was screeching and cawing and hissing, scratching frantically beneath a mostly bare berry bush, tiny black eyes flaring with greedy need. 

 

As Daryl was still so young and still trying to figure out the basics of his world he transgressed into the activity most little boys do when face with some strange and unpredictable occurrence; he threw a rock at the thing.  Well, a stone really. It was such a tiny thing that the bird was disturbed but unharmed. It skittered away and with one great flap of its wings it was swooping off , glaring at the small boy with vengeful, beady eyes.

The boy didn’t realise how much racket the bird had made until there was no bird to make a racket.  The silence was heavy and palpable, as if every creature in wood was collectively holding their breath and stilling their movements.  Then a sound, miniscule and barely there, but a sound in the midst of all the oppressing and weighted quiet.

 

It was a big-eared mouse. Small, like himself, and very badly injured. A back leg was bent at an inconceivable angle and blood was matted along its side. It didn’t try and get away, just lay still with closed eyes, panting, it’s tiny little lungs unable to gather enough air.  Daryl reached out slowly, prodding gently at the nose, testing.  The mouse jerked its head away weakly.

 

Daryl reached again, both hands this time, to pick up the broken thing as smoothly as he could, cradling the vulnerable body to chest.

 

*

 Days passed and the creature wasn’t getting any better.

 

Daryl tried everything he could think of.  He dropped tiny dew-drop sized amounts of water into the panting, red mouth; secreted vegetables and bread crumbs from the table to feed it; held the little body in his cupped hands to warm it’s chilled fur, but nothing changed. The mouse seemed to be getting weaker in fact, no longer opening his eyes or accepting food.

 

On the fifth day, Daryl held his new friend as its breath weakened and eventually stopped.  The boy stared at his lifeless body, clasped so gently between his clumsy hands, for so long and so intently that Merle had come into their shared room unnoticed.

 

Merle’s lip curled in disgust at the dead rodent, snatching it from Daryl’s hands.  The boy was on his feet immediately, pleading with his big brother to _please, jus’ wanna bury him!_ , but Merle disregarded his snot and tears and wide begging mouth and threw the still body to the dog.

 

*

 

“Merle! Sonofabitch what’re ya doin’ here?”  The utterly undisguised joy on the hunter’s face almost made Glenn relax, but the way this stranger was eyeing him made him want to bolt for the hills. He shimmied further behind Daryl, obscuring the gaze of the newcomer.

 

“On my way to see my only livin’ relative, why’d ya think?” Merle crossed over the log separating the two of them to clasp his brother’s hand tightly to his own. “It’s been an age brother,” he griped tighter at Daryl’s wrist, a threat of something much more painful.  The younger man winced, but smirked through it all, used to Merle’s games of dominance.  He followed the jerk of Merle’s chin to Glenn trying to act invisible behind him and the realisation was an almost physical force, suckering out all his breath and words.  “Ya not gonna introduce me to ya friend there?”

 

Friend. Right, was Glenn his friend? He wasn’t a slave, not anymore. Yes, friend was right. But Glenn was such a foreign looking friend.

 

Daryl shrugged one shoulder as naturally as possible. “Jus’ a slave.”

 

Merle quirked an eyebrow, eyes narrowing. “A slave? Boy, you got money ta burn or sumthin’?” Again, Daryl shrugged, neither of the brothers paying attention to the nervous figure hovering within hearing distance. The elder of the two nodded slowly, “Don’t matter I s’pose.  You could never cook fer shit.” Merle snorted for a moment in the back of his throat before turning slightly to cough out was of something green.

 

“So what you really doin’ here?”

 

In answer, Merle’s lips split and stretched in sickly parody of a happy smile. “Do I need an excuse ta come and see my little Darylena?.”

 

*

 

Merle had ridden on ahead, rasping voice carrying some unknown drinking song.  Glenn was quiet, eyes focused on the swinging tails of Dart and Arrow. The hunter cleared his throat, awkward and distressed, glancing quickly to his silent companion. “I didn’t mean nothin by it,” he muttered in his collar.

 

Glenn roused from his daze with a puzzled, “Mmm?”

 

“Before. With Merle. It didn’t mean what it sounded like. Jus’ with Merle. . .”

 

A small, sad, soft smile tilted Glenn’s entire demeanour into one of resignation. “It’s okay Daryl. You don’t need to explain yourself.”

 

The only other breaths that passed between the two were heavy with regret and unspoken wants.

 

*

 

Dark had long since fallen and snow was falling thicker and faster , raising past the ankles of their mounts as two of them struggled with the combined weight of their owners and the filled cart. Merle had lead them an hour or two out the way, promising dry beds and hot food and it was that bright and comforting thought that had Glenn and Daryl pushing their cart from behind up hill, snowflakes fat and heavy with a wind that seared and pushed and worked against them. Merle was ahead with a bouncing Dog, shepherding the fillies with hoots and whistles and smacks to their backsides.

 

The whole process was getting more difficult by the second. Daryl lost his footing constantly, Glenn’s grip on their wood slipped more than once when his numb fingers refused to cooperate and collectively the two struggled to lift and manoeuvred the large wooden structure over unseen rocks and hidden debris.

 

Something ahead, maybe loose stones or Dog getting too close for comfort , made the horses skid downwards for a few moments before they regained leverage yet again.  The result of which was that Glenn (Poor, numb, shattered Glenn), lost his precarious grip, forehead colliding with a jutting out plank before he tumbled down, back through their tracks that made mountains out of the snow, hitting every obstacle they’d painstakingly overcome.  He caught himself on a bare bush, nose bloody and more bruises than he’s care to count.

 

Daryl had screamed Glenn’s name the moment he saw him slip away, words stolen and whispered away by the storm.  He didn’t so much as run to Glenn’s side as use a controlled but frantic slide with his feet, instinctively catching on what footholds he needed.  He reached the lone figure, heart and lungs wrestling with pinpricks of dread, only for a relived rush of air escape to his cracked lips in a cloud of white.

 

Glenn was awake and not broken, holding his sleeve up to staunch a bloody nose, eye shaping into crescents to show his smile.  Daryl reached out with both shaking hands to cradle Glenn’s snow covered head, pressing his brow tightly to his own and just breathed. The flakes fell about them, catching on their hairs and clothes. Daryl's beard was shade darker with the moisture, his stuck down flat but he took a moment to steady himself, letting his rub into Glenn's scalp as the other man slighter hands came to grip reassuringly at the trembling wrists.

 

When the hunter had gather enough of himself to be certain he would fall, he rose, standing lopsided on the hill and disturbing the new flakes that had settled. He hoisted Glenn up by the pits, his smaller feet skating and scrambling to find purchase.

 

Up ahead, seated solemnly on a stallion whose dark colouring rivalled that of the sky, was Merle looking down on the duo, eyes glittering dangerously when Daryl caught them.

 

 

*

 

The village, so tiny and tight knit, hugged by trees on all side, must have had a name damn if Merle is hadn’t bother to tell them.  Hadn’t bothered to tell them much of anything, just stiffly lead them to the only inn. Dog had to sleep in the stable, a kinder off than Daryl expected. Glenn called the mutt with a whistle and a pat to his thigh before leading him around the back. 

 

The brothers had shuttered themselves into a tiny corner table, away from the misery and drawn faces travellers in similar circumstances, cradling over full pint mugs of bitter ale.  Daryl hadn’t touched his, beginning as exhausted as he was; he just wanted to gather Glenn and go to sleep. He really didn’t want to deal with Merle right now.

 

Daryl cleared his throat, hoping to begin somewhere more pleasant.

 

“It’s good ta see ya Merle.” He tried to smile, really, but his lips merely skewered off to the side. Merle grunted in reply, eyes warily looking Daryl up and down.  “Was there a reason? Not that ya need a reason, jus’ ya never – “

 

“Actually, there was a reason,” Merle nodded slowly to himself, almost as if the reason had been something a million years ago, trapped under snow and ice and night. His eyes turned suddenly, pining Daryl to the corner. “Though I don’t now if ya’ll be interested anymore. Seeing as, well, seeing as ya _lost your way.”_

Daryl quickly looked down to his hands, calloused and filthy, all frayed cuticles and bitten nails. Guilt bloomed behind his rib cage and something sick and heated balled up tight in his stomach; he felt so awfully ashamed and he wasn’t sure why. “I ain’t like – I’m interested Merle, real interested. I’ve always been interested.  Jus. . . .what’s  ya news Merle?” He felt like breaking something almost, Merle always made him feel like a naughty little boy and Daryl, as simple as he knows he is, he knows that he doesn’t exactly help matters by always trying to please his brother. It’s just, he could never stop.  And here, a grown man, feeling like his hands in the cookie jar.

 

Merle shifted, looking about at the other patrons before, giving his brother a sideways stare. “Ya really wanna know?” At Daryl’s enthused nod, he to full face his brother and the table, eyes locking on the nervous man.  “I got myself a wife.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
